


Wasn't Me

by Gia279



Series: 5+1 Things [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alive Hales, Awkward Derek, BAMF Allison, Deputy Allison, Deputy Stiles, Human AU, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Paintball, Shy Derek, Stiles is suspicious, a purple car goes missing, christmas trees, failwolf derek, holiday type theme i guess, it's a whole big purple car thing, silliness, the flu makes an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:06:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: The 5 times it wasn't what it looked like, and the 1 time it totally was.





	Wasn't Me

**Author's Note:**

> There's no cheating in this fic, despite the choice of song title. I just thought it was a funny title for what I hope is a funny fic. Enjoy!

**1**

Stiles was exhausted. He was going to go home, fall on the couch face first, and never move again. Being a small town deputy was supposed to be _boring._ He should be complaining about not having enough action in his life, not picking dead leaves out of his hair. Some kids had gone to the Beacon Hills dog daycare, Paws and Claws, during playtime, cut the fence with wire-cutters, and set the dogs free. 

Stiles and the rest of the deputies with the lowest seniority on the totem pole had spent hours tracking all of them down. He’d had to chase two rambunctious young labs into the preserve and around in circles for about an hour before he caught them and herded them into his cruiser. Beacon Hills didn’t have a separate animal control office, so the sheriff’s department was all they had. 

He parked in his spot outside his apartment and sat in the jeep for a minute, fortifying himself to hike to the third floor. The only good thing about the top floor was his across-the-hall neighbor; Derek Hale kept to himself, but he was a nice enough guy. Quiet, mostly, and punch-to-the-face attractive, with a shy smile that came out whenever Stiles said hello in the hall or at the mailboxes. 

Stiles sighed and straightened up. He’d have to shower once he got upstairs. The worst part of adulthood was admitting you needed a shower or had to go to bed, no matter how badly you’d rather do anything but. He tumbled out of the jeep and rubbed his face, grimacing as dirt flaked off his cheek. He may or may not have done a header right into the mud after tripping over a dog he was chasing. The only witness was a Pomeranian named Princess and he would admit nothing. 

He rounded his car and hesitated. The car in the space next to him was empty, but the headlights were on, beaming bright across the lot. He set his hand on the hood, which was cool enough that he didn’t think the lights were going to turn off in a minute. He grunted and ducked down, checking the unit number painted on the spot. 110, the apartment directly across from him.

Slightly cheered—the car could’ve belonged to the woman in the apartment beneath his, who was a real witch; she liked to play loud music early in the morning and complain about him running his shower past eight pm—he headed inside. Apartment living was an adventure. He climbed the stairs with minimal grumbling, swinging his keyring around his finger. 

He knocked on 110 with a smile already curling his mouth, trying to think of a non-creepy way to flirt with his neighbor. Subtle enough that he could pass it off as friendly conversation if Derek seemed uncomfortable, but not so subtle that if he was receptive, he would miss it. 

Behind the door, someone swore, and then something gave a wet _pop!_ that made Stiles grimace reflexively. Derek yanked the door open dripping what looked like blood, clutching a wicked looking carving knife. His thunderous expression faltered, then cleared. “Oh, S—Deputy Stilinski. Is something wrong?”

Stiles felt himself gaping and tried to stop. “You—is there a problem?”

He blinked. “Nope. Just cooking. Trying to cook. Was I making too much noise? I’m sorry, I’ll keep it down.” He glanced anxiously over his shoulder, then back at Stiles. 

“Um—you left your headlights on. That’s all I was—I just got home and noticed you left your headlights on.” Stiles couldn’t help looking at each red splatter, along his arms and across his chest, on his neck and face. 

Derek smiled, a wide, bright grin that normally would have set Stiles’s heart racing. As it was, he had dark red spatters on his cheeks and forehead that turned it into a manic grin. “Thanks. I’ll go turn them off in a minute.” 

“Ah…Okay. Um. Did you say you were cooking?”

He nodded, ducking his head shyly. “Oh, yeah, we’re just—getting ready for the big family dinner.” 

Something thumped in the apartment, followed by muffled grunting. Derek winced. “Thanks for letting me know about the lights. I’ll see you later?”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles stood there for a minute after he’d closed the door. He was about ninety percent positive that it wasn’t blood. Surely, if Derek were in the middle of brutally murdering someone, he wouldn’t have bothered to open the door. _Surely._

Stiles shuffled home, mostly convinced but also determined to keep an eye on his neighbor from now on. He obviously wouldn’t have been so calm, talking to a uniformed deputy if it was blood. 

 

A couple hours later, Stiles opened his apartment door with intentions of going to get his mail and found a little glass container on his welcome mat, with a card on top.

‘ _Here’s some homemade cranberry sauce if you’d like to try it. Thanks for looking out, neighbor! –DH_ ’ 

Stiles went back inside and closed the door. He pried open the container and found, well, red goo. Cranberry sauce that, after he stuck his finger in and tried it, tasted a hell of a lot better than the canned stuff. He frowned at the card again. He was still going to keep an eye on Derek Hale. 

 

**2**

Scott and Allison managed to radiate cheer and disapproval at once, which was not only skill but also incredibly annoying. 

“It’s almost New Years!” Allison chided. “You should’ve already taken this down!” She was helpfully taking ornaments off Stiles’s tree, while Scott unraveled the lights and Stiles lounged on the couch. 

“Eh,” Stiles said, which summed up his feelings about prompt decoration removal. He still had some Valentine’s Day gel cling things on his window somewhere. 

“Mom said you should come to dinner next week,” Scott said. He had a coil of lights at his feet that seemed to just keep going. He sort of looked like if Santa and Rapunzel got together and made a cyborg in their image. 

Stiles snorted. “I’ll be there, just text me the time. Is there a dress code, or…?”

Allison honked out a surprised laugh, nearly dropping a glass Star Wars ornament and making Stiles squawk in panic. 

Scott flushed. “I should tell you there is, for payback.” 

Stiles had invited Scott over for his and his father’s yearly barbeque with the rest of the department back in July. He may have jokingly told Scott it was formal dress when he invited him. Turns out, sarcasm doesn’t translate over text so well. Scott turned up at the barbeque in a tux, and Stiles snorted beer out of his nose, so everyone lost.

“I didn’t mean it,” Stiles said for the thousandth time. “I was obviously joking. Allison came in a t-shirt and shorts.” 

Scott scowled at the reminder. 

“Looks like the tree is finished!” Allison said quickly. “Why don’t you take it outside, Stiles?” She looked at him pointedly, then laughed again, trying to stifling it. “Before Scott jams it up your nose?”

Stiles wrestled the tree into a bag. “You’re both terrible. I could fall to my death taking this thing down the stairs by myself.” 

Neither of them appeared moved by his plight. Scott gave him a little finger wave and bounced off to the kitchen, hunting for popcorn for their movie night. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and dragged the tree into the hall. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to get any sympathy help from either of them, he went a little faster. The tree wasn’t actually that heavy, just unwieldy, so he managed to get it over his shoulder and down the stairs without breaking his neck.

The yard waste dumpster was only half-full of old Christmas trees, because despite Allison and Scott’s lofty decoration removal schedule, most people in the apartment complex waited until _after_ New Years to take down their trees. 

Stiles was complaining about them out loud while he tried to work out the best way to throw the tree into the dumpster. He was just contemplating launching it when someone came up behind him. “Ah!” The tree flopped to the ground. “Oh my god, next time just knock me over the head with a rock or something!” 

Derek’s brows went up. “If you insist, Deputy.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. “Do you need help with your tree?”

The honest answer was _no_ , Stiles was just complaining, but what he said was, “Sure! Thanks.” 

“No problem. I saw you struggling on my way in and figured I’d offer.” He did most of the work, lifting the tree over his head and dumping it in with the others. “Did you have a good holiday?”

“Yeah, I spent the morning with my dad, and the evening at the station.” He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “All the new people have to work the holidays, sheriff’s son or not.” 

Derek smiled back. “Did Sheriff Stilinski work with you?”

Stiles snorted. “Are you kidding? He took the night off and ate a bunch of junk food at Melissa’s house during her party.” Stiles put his hands in his pockets. “What about you?”

He grimaced. “I had dinner with the family. All fifteen of them,” he grumbled. “We had fun. We always do, even when we fight.” He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “Speaking of…sorry. I’ve got to go. See you later, Deputy Stilinski.” 

He kept meaning to tell Derek to just call him Stiles, but he always forgot when he heard Derek call him _Deputy Stilinski_ because…mmm. He shook his head, snickering at himself, and went back inside to get started on movie night. 

In the middle of _Prometheus_ he heard people in the hall, chattering and laughing, but after a second, they quieted, so he assumed they were visiting one of his neighbors. And then about twenty minutes into _Alien: Covenant_ , Allison burned the popcorn. Badly. 

“Oh, shit, sorry! Here, I’ll take the trash down, I’m sorry, Stiles.” She stuffed the smoking bag into the trash and tied it up. 

“It’s alright, I’ll take it. You guys open up the windows before the smoke detector goes off.” He took the bag from her and sighed. Maybe he’d run into Derek at the compactor and get to commiserate over the burned-popcorn stench together. 

Two of the parking lot lamps were out, making the walk to the compactor darker than it should have been. Stiles muttered to himself about talking to maintenance about adequate lighting. He could easily get hit by a car going too fast through here, and god forbid anyone _smaller_ walk through here. He was glad he hadn’t let Allison take the trash; some of the trucks that whipped through here wouldn’t even see her over their hoods with their big ass monster wheels. 

As he neared the compactor, he saw someone by the tree dumpster and squinted. Whoever it was, they were hauling an oddly shaped…something…to the dumpster. “Hey,” he called in a friendly tone, trying not to scare them off.

The person jumped violently. “Deputy Stilinski!” It sounded like Derek, only higher pitched and almost squeaky. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Stiles lifted his garbage bag. “Had a popcorn mishap.” He tipped his head, trying to get a better look without being obvious. 

Derek shuffled his feet, coincidentally or purposely blocking more of the bag he was hauling. “Right. I was just, um, getting rid of my tree.” He cleared his throat again. “My sister helped me bag it. She—she thinks she’s funny.” He chuckled weakly. 

Stiles offered an awkward “heh” in return. “Okay…well…do you need any h-”

“No!” Derek took a step back. “Sorry. I—don’t you have, er, company? I don’t want to keep you. I’ve got it. Thanks, Deputy.” He smiled, awkward and maybe a little nervous. 

Stiles nodded and tossed his bag in the compactor. He waved awkwardly and headed back toward his building. He didn’t go inside; he went and sat behind his car instead, watching the door. Derek was being _weird._

Maybe he was a little drunk or something, but after the cranberry sauce/blood incident (Stiles still wasn’t sure how he felt about that) he wasn’t taking any chances. 

He waited until he saw Derek go back into the building. Then he returned to the dumpster. 

Scott texted him, wondering where he’d gone. 

He replied absently that he’d run into a neighbor, then, grabbing the edge of the dumpster, hoisted himself up high enough to see in. Which would have been adequate, if there were any freaking lights around. He clambered up and swung his legs over, then pulled out his phone while he was balanced on the edge. He turned on the flashlight feature and shined it over the contents of the bin. He yelped and toppled over backwards, landing on the pavement in a heap, phone flying out of his hand. He scrambled for it before it could skid under the dumpster, and called Allison. “I might be wrong, but I think there’s a body in the Christmas trees,” he babbled once she answered. 

Allison and Scott came down to investigate. Scott had brought the first aid kit to treat the scrapes on Stiles’s head and hands. Allison came to check out the body. 

“I’m not calling it in until I’m sure,” she said, climbing nimbly into the bin. Her phone light lit up the dumpster, then she swore. “Okay, that does look like a body. Hold my light,” she ordered, waggling it above her head. She was a deputy as well, and somehow managed to come across as way more professional than Stiles in literally any situation. That was probably why Dad had made them partners. 

Stiles stood up and took the phone, angling it high so the whole inside of the dumpster was illuminated. 

She muffled a snort against her sleeve and ripped the bag open a little. “Haven’t you seen that meme online, Stilinski?” She tugged on the bag, which tipped over more easily than it should have, if it were actually a body. 

“Seen _what?_ Body disposal 101? _No!_ ” 

Allison cleared her throat. “No, Stiles, the _meme._ Where they tie up their Christmas tree to look like a body to freak out their neighbors?”

Stiles flushed. “ _What?!_ That’s terrible. That isn’t funny. Why would someone do that?”

“How have you _not_ seen that online?” Scott asked, snickering. 

“I’m not hip with the young people, Scott!” 

“You’re twenty-six!” 

Stiles waved his hands in Scott’s face. “ _Not_ the point! Who the hell…” He grimaced. 

Allison noticed. “What? Why were you looking in here anyway?” she asked suspiciously.

“Ah…one of my neighbors was just acting weird and jumpy. Then I saw that.”

“I see.” She held her hand up. “Help me out of here. It was just a dumb joke.” 

“Sure,” Stiles murmured. He helped Scott get her out, quiet as he thought about it. Why would anyone be _that_ jumpy over a Christmas tree? It didn’t make sense. 

“Stiles? Coming?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” He glanced back at the dumpster once before following them in.

 

 

**3**

Scott and Allison thought he was being so ridiculous that Stiles was forced to let the Christmas tree thing go. After all, Derek hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Not that Stiles could prove, anyway, or that he was even sure of. 

Of course, that made him worry that he was cutting the guy too much slack. Would he avoid a full-out investigation this long if he didn’t have a weird crush on the guy? Maybe. He dropped his head into his upturned hands, braced on his desk.

“Having _me_ do the digging doesn’t negate the invasion, Stiles,” Allison scoffed. 

Stiles dropped his hands. “Well? Anything suspicious? Does he have speeding tickets? Did he move here from LA with two ex-wives and an arson record?” 

“No, you moron. He’s a BHHS survivor, he’s lived here his whole life, and he has one speeding ticket from ten years ago. The guy volunteers at the animal shelter and finds homes for senior cats. He’s not chopping people up in his apartment.”

“See! Your mind immediately went there! Because it’s all _very suspicious_.” 

“Because you told me you thought he was making people soup.” She frowned at him. “Are you feeling okay? Your eyes are kind of glassy.” 

He scowled. “I’m _fine_. I’m just _concerned._ ” 

She put her hand on his forehead, then drew back sharply. “Stiles, you’re burning up! You’re sick!” 

Everyone else on duty heard her and immediately backed up as if they hadn’t been sharing air with him for three hours already. 

“I’m not sick! It is _suspicion!_ ” 

Sheriff Stilinski came out of his office, beckoned by Deputy Parrish, the filthy, rotten turncoat. “You can either go home now,” he offered, “or I can drive you to Melissa in an hour.”

“I’m not—I’m—” Stiles got to his feet and gripped the edge of the desk to keep himself steady, swaying. “That was just a head rush,” he snapped when John’s brows perked mockingly. “I am not sick, and here’s why—I am a _little_ flushed. Not from fever, but from pursuing justice, and—and from upholding the law, sir! I—whoa.” He caught himself on Allison’s desk. “No, no, that was just—lunges. I’m exercising.”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you’re good, we’re going to do traffic. C’mon, Superman.” 

“Deputy Argent,” John began sharply, but Allison turned to talk to him—obviously defending Stiles’s honor—and he let them go. 

They pulled up in front of Stiles’s building five minutes later. 

“I call subterfuge,” he muttered, as if he hadn’t been dozing in the passenger seat of their cruiser the whole ride. 

“You call nothing. Just shut-up and go upstairs, dummy. Get some rest. I’ll send Scott by later to make sure you haven’t died.” She pulled him out of the car and nudged him toward the building. “Go, before you spread your ick.”

“ _You’re_ ick,” he muttered. Once into his apartment and pajamas, he flopped on the couch and admitted to himself that maybe, possibly, he was a _tiny_ bit sick.

 

He woke up a couple hours later shivering and sweaty. He shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of water. The sun was still out, so it wasn’t that late yet. He groaned and pressed his cup to his face. He was cold, but his face felt too hot. He hated being sick. It was so useless. 

He shuffled to his balcony. Maybe he’d go out there with a blanket and just sit, moping for a while. Maybe he’d text Allison, begging her to come take him back to work. If he wore a mask and bathed in hand sanitizer, maybe they’d let him back in. He pressed his forehead against the sliding door, which was pleasantly cool against his—damn it—feverish skin. There was stubborn and then there was stupid. He’d go back to work tomorrow, refreshed and ready to go. Today, he’d find a show to put on and sleep on the couch.

He sighed and straightened up from the window, opening his eyes. He wanted to sleep for days, now that he’d admitted he was sick. Movement caught his eye in the parking lot; he turned to track it automatically.

Derek Hale had his hands cupped around his eyes as he peered through the tinted window of an older model purple car. He straightened up after a second and tried the handle of the back door. 

Stiles watched with disbelief as Derek tried every door before circling back to the driver’s side. He pulled out his phone and leaned a hip against the car while he called someone. 

Stiles squinted, trying to read his lips, but he was too far away. He bumped his face on the glass and reared back, mortified, then annoyed about being embarrassed. No one was _here._

Derek moved away from the car. 

Stiles sighed with relief. “That’s right, Hale. Your car is much better than that thing anyway. You have no reason to steal a car. None at all.” He leaned against the window, resting and keeping an eye out. He’d wait five minutes, then go nap.

Derek returned in two, with something in his hands, mostly blocked by his torso. He started fiddling with the purple car again. 

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles muttered. He ran to put his shoes on, leaning dizzily against the wall as he did so. He really hoped he didn’t lose it on his way down. Gross. 

He called the station as he raced to the parking lot, blinking spots out of his eyes and trying to orient himself. He felt like he’d gone out the backdoor thinking it was the front. He sort of felt like if he didn’t sit, very soon, he might die. “Kari!” he blurted when Deputy Jones answered the phone. “Hey. Um. It’s Stiles. I think I just saw a man breaking into a car. At 1060 South East Main Street.” 

“Who? Aren’t you out sick, Stilinski?” Kari asked, sounding dubious.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Kari, I am. Which is how—how…” He did a slow circle, trying to see the whole parking lot, puzzled. He didn’t see the purple car or Derek, or any sign that either of them had been there. He looked for glass or maybe a discarded wire hanger, a skid mark or anything. He licked his lips. “Derek Hale stole a car,” he said with conviction, and threw up on his own shoes. 

 

Scott came over to help clean him up and to bully him into bed. “Allison said you called the station babbling about cars,” he said, holding out a bottle of Gatorade with a stern expression. 

Stiles accepted it meekly. “I wasn’t babbling.” He took a drink before Scott could try to force it down his throat. “I just witnessed a—a car theft. One of my neighbors. Stole a car.” 

Scott looked unconvinced. “You saw your neighbor actually stealing a car? In broad daylight? You _saw_ this?”

Stiles drank more Gatorade. “Well, I saw him messing with a car that wasn’t his, and when I got downstairs, he and the car were gone.”

“Are you talking about the Christmas tree dude?” Scott asked shrewdly. “The one who owns the Camaro?” 

“That one, yeah. It makes no sense, but I saw him, Scott. He checked all the doors, then left, and returned and started messing with the doors again! When I got outside, he and the car were gone. Explain _that_.” 

“Take your medicine. Should bring your fever down.” Scott held out two pills and frowned at Stiles until he took them. 

Stiles glared at him. “You aren’t listening to me.” 

“I am listening. Allison will keep an eye out for reports of stolen cars, okay?” 

“ _Purple_ cars,” Stiles pressed. 

“Yes, purple cars.” He nudged the Gatorade bottle, so Stiles took the meds with a quick swig. “Good. Take a nap. I’m gonna go do your laundry and make some soup.”

Stiles knew they thought he was feverish and had misunderstood what he’d seen. That was fine. He’d just investigate Derek Hale on his own, without their help. He set his head on his pillow. The investigation would start right after this nap. 

 

**4**

No purple cars were reported stolen in the following week. There was one report for a stolen orange station wagon, but it turned out the owner had partied a little too hard on New Years and forgotten where he’d parked it. It’d turned up at the impound a day after the report was filed. 

“You’re obsessed,” Allison sighed. “Why not just ask the guy out instead of accusing him of crime?”

Stiles scowled. “Because I don’t want to be his next victim! He said hello to me yesterday, and slammed his door before I could say anything. Because he’s hiding his various criminal acts behind closed doors.” 

She rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t done anything but be a friendly neighbor. Is that a crime now?”

“He had _blood_ -”

“Cranberry sauce!”

“He was jumpy-”

“Because you were treating him like a criminal!” 

“And he broke into a car that wasn’t his!” 

“ _Allegedly_ broke into. You never saw him get into the car, and it hasn’t been reported stolen.” 

Stiles snorted. That was all semantics, as far as he was concerned. Hale was _up_ to something. He didn’t know what, exactly, but he was going to find out. 

They were sitting in their cruiser, nearby a school bus stop, watching for speeders. Residents had been complaining lately about people speeding around the bus and nearly hitting some of the kids. 

So they were sitting there, with the hopes that if their presence didn’t slow people the hell down, then they could catch them in the act at least. 

The elementary school bus showed up first, just after one pm. Parents were spread out, either waiting at the stop, or further down the sidewalk, parked in their cars and spread out. Down at the far corner behind the bus, a black Camaro parked neatly beside the sidewalk. Stiles narrowed his eyes. 

Derek Hale climbed out and rounded the hood, hopping up onto the sidewalk. 

“Look.” Stiles nudged Allison’s arm until she followed his gaze. “I wonder what nefarious thing he’s going to get up to now.” His eyes remained narrowed.

Allison scoffed. “He isn’t doing anything wrong, Stiles. You’re being ridiculous. _Nefarious_? You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she scolded. 

Derek waved at a small boy in the crowd of kids filing out of the bus. He started toward them, and the boy shot off running in the opposite direction. …And then Derek started chasing him. 

Stiles popped out of the cruiser, ignoring Allison snapping at him to just wait a second. She got out with him, glaring at him across the top of the car.

“Stop!” Derek called. “Please just get in the car!” He scrambled after the boy as he dodged and bolted down the sidewalk. “I have a treat for you if you get in the car!” 

“Oh, shit,” Allison said, and started chasing them. 

Stiles swore under his breath and followed. He saw Allison racing beside him.

“Stop, right now!” she ordered in that tone that usually made people stop dead. 

Derek did not stop.

Allison took a leap and tackled him to the sidewalk.

Stiles raced by and caught up with the kid. “Hey, buddy, you can stop now, it’s okay.” 

The boy stopped running and bent over his knees, panting. 

Stiles looked over his shoulder and saw Allison cuffing Derek aggressively. “Are you okay?” He knelt beside the boy and realized with horror that his shoulders were shaking. “Are your parents around? Do you know their numbers?”

The boy shook his head and finally looked up enough for Stiles to see his face, revealing that he was breathless with laughter, face turning alarming pink. “Uncle—picking me up—today,” he gasped. He pointed at Derek, still cuffed and now sitting up on the sidewalk, his legs stretched out in front of him. His chin was scraped from hitting the cement. “’S my uncle.” Then he doubled over with laughter again.

Stiles felt his face going red. “Alright. Let’s just head back over there, hmm? What’s your name?”

“Ben,” he said, wiping his face and finally standing up straight. 

They walked side by side back to where Derek and Allison were. 

“Ben, tell them I’m your uncle,” Derek said. “Or go get your mother.” He looked mortified, and then he saw Stiles and just squeezed his eyes shut. 

“You know him?” Allison asked, looking at Ben.

He nodded, a grin starting to spread over his face again. Tears of mirth formed in the corners of his eyes. 

“Why were you running?” Derek demanded, brows drawing together. “I brought you a cookie and a drink from Starbucks!” 

Ben shrugged. “I dunno, I just felt like running.” He looked behind Allison and grinned. “Hi, Mom! Did you see?”

Derek let out a soft, piteous noise and lowered his head. 

Laura Hale stepped around Allison. Her face was as red as her son’s, and she was wiping tears out of her eyes. “Yes, baby, I saw. I recorded it, too.” She bent to ruffle Derek’s hair. “I’m gonna play that at your birthday this year, bro. You went _down._ Nice tackle, Deputy,” she added, grinning at Allison.

“So he has permission to pick up your son?” Allison asked, clearly trying to spare Stiles from having to ask the questions. 

“Oh, yeah. He has the little Ben Hale sign at the car, but he wanted to surprise him.” She snickered, then looked at Stiles. She frowned for a second before a wide, unholy grin lit up her face. “You’re Deputy Stilinski, aren’t you?”

Derek’s head popped up. “ _Laura_ ,” he warned. 

“Uh, yes, ma’am.”

She pressed her lips together and kept smiling. “Alright. Is he under arrest? Or can we go? My ice cream is melting.” 

“Ice cream?!” Ben bolted toward the Camaro.

“He’s not under arrest. We’re sorry for the misunderstanding.” Allison put her arm under Derek’s elbow and hauled him to his feet. Then she unlocked the cuffs. “Mr. Hale, in the future, I would advise against chasing after children, offering treats to them if they’ll get in your car, even if you’re related to them.”

Laura started laughing again. 

Derek covered his face. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

Laura practically howled, holding onto his arm to keep herself upright. “Oh, I can’t wait to show Uncle Peter this video. Come on, Der, there’s a treat in the car for you.” She laughed again when he scowled at her. “Thanks for all you do, Deputies. _Really._ See you!” She led Derek away while still shaking with laughter. 

Allison waved, then whirled on Stiles, dropping her hands on her hips. 

“Hey, you’re the one that jumped on the guy!” he protested, holding his hands up. “I didn’t tell you to do that. And he _was_ shouting at a small child that he had treats.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But would you please, _please_ just let it go now? See what happened?”

“We stopped a possible kidnapping?”

“We tackled and cuffed an uncle surprising his nephew,” she corrected fiercely. 

“Well, it _could_ have been a kidnapping. Who yells at a kid to get in their car because they have treats?” Stiles demanded. 

“Someone trying to stop their nephew from running into the street.” She jabbed her finger at the cruiser. “Go sit. You’re grounded.”

Stiles went. Maybe she and Scott were right and he needed to just—relax about Derek. Clearly, he _was_ jumping to conclusions, and that wasn’t fair to Derek. 

But that car thing still bothered him. 

 

**5**

Stiles may or may not have started avoiding Derek. He kept an eye out for the purple car, but otherwise he felt _really bad_ about the tackling and the cuffing in front of a group of parents, so he laid off. And made sure the coast was clear before stepping foot out of his apartment. These days he was either ten minutes late or two hours early for work, thanks to his avoidance tactics and Derek’s unpredictable schedule. 

He was thrilled when he could use his vacation time to hole up in his apartment. 

“You should’ve taken a trip somewhere,” Scott said over the phone. “You still have time! Drive out to the beach. Take a _real_ vacation!” 

Stiles grunted and shifted lower on the couch. “I don’t want to.”

Scott huffed, making the connection crackle. “There’s no chance of running into your neighbor at the beach.” 

“There is that,” Stiles said, to humor him. He was going to see how many days he could go without leaving the house. He bet he could go his whole vacation. 

“Yeah. You could get some fresh air, maybe get a hotel and stay for a few days…” 

Stiles looked at the phone incredulously. “What are you trying to say, Scott?”

“That you’re turning into a crazy shut-in. You should get out some. I’m sure Derek’s already forgotten about the incident,” Scott soothed. 

“We tackled and handcuffed him.” 

“No, _Allison_ did that. So, really, you have no reason to be embarrassed.” 

“That’s the worst part,” Stiles muttered. 

“ _How_?”

“Because I feel guilty even though I never actually did anything to the guy, so it’s all over my _face_!” 

“How did you ever become a cop?” Scott muttered, half-drowned by a muffled shriek in the hall.

Something thumped three times, followed by a man cursing. 

Stiles decided to ignore it. It was probably nothing. Again. “Look, I’ll go to a movie or something tomorrow. Will that make you feel better?”

“No, but it’s a start,” Scott grumbled. “Just—don’t dwell, okay? You don’t even really know the guy.” 

Stiles sighed. “Yeah, I know.” 

Another scream in the hall. He levered himself up on his elbow and looked over the back of the couch at the door. Then he flopped back down. 

“Well, you still owe us dinner, so get over this funk and come out once and a while, okay?”

“Alright.”

“Good. Now you can go back to Netflix.” 

A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “Love you, Scotty.”

“Love you, too, bro. Leave the house this week,” he ordered again, and hung up.

Stiles tossed his phone on the coffee table, leaving his arm dangling. The outside world could wait. He was watching _Guardians of the Galaxy 2_ , which was obviously not avoidance. 

Someone yelped in the hall, then snapped a name that Stiles couldn’t make out. 

Maybe someone was moving and having trouble.

Maybe Derek was moving away from his freak neighbor. 

Stiles’s head started to pound; he got up to make popcorn. No one was going to move over awkwardness. Who wanted the trouble? It seemed like too much work. He poured his popcorn into a bowl and nearly dropped it when yet another shriek followed. He pressed his fingers into his temples, sighing. He set the bowl on the counter. He’d just go out there, calmly, and ask if his neighbors—whoever was screaming—could keep it down. He had a headache, and the noise was really inconsiderate. 

He pulled his shoes on because the hallway floor was questionable at best and hazardous at worst, and opened his door. His mouth popped open. 

A red-faced young woman gaped back at him, chest heaving as she panted. Her shirt was covered in red spatters, her hair tangled and falling in her face. The door opened at her back, making her jump. Derek muttered, “fuck,” hooked an arm around her waist, and yanked her, shrieking anew, into his apartment. He slammed the door, muffling more shrieking and yelling. 

Stiles sprang forward and kicked the door open before he could hesitate, shouting, “Nobody move!” 

Derek froze in the middle of the room; his shirt was covered in red splatters as well. 

The woman he’d dragged inside was on the floor behind a table, a paintball gun held limply in her hands. 

The other woman—Laura Hale, Stiles realized—had blue spatters all over _her_ shirt, and was also holding a paintball gun, which was aimed at Derek. 

Laura and the other woman looked at Derek’s broken door. Laura started to laugh—and the other one, who Stiles was starting to realize must be Derek’s younger sister, Cora, let out a high pitched, breathless sound. It sounded like a scream, but, watching, Stiles realized it was just her laughing. 

“I—heard…screaming,” he said haltingly. “Then…”

Laura chortled, nearly dropping her gun. “You heard Cora’s ugly laugh, then saw Derek with his resting murder face drag a screaming woman into his apartment.” She grabbed at the couch to keep her balance as she laughed. 

“Hey!” Derek and Cora shouted in unison. 

Stiles grimaced, looking at the broken pieces of Derek’s door. He looked at the splintered doorframe. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his eyes widening with horror. 

“No, we’re sorry,” Laura said, suddenly sobering. “We shouldn’t have been so loud in the hallway. This is an apartment, not a playground.” She looked at her siblings, setting her paintball gun on the couch. 

Derek shook himself. “ _You’re_ the ones who came over and started shooting at me!” He looked at Stiles and paled. “Shooting _paintballs_ at me. They—are not really guns. We don’t…have guns.” 

Stiles pressed his fingers into his eyes. “I figured that out.” His face was burning. “Look, I’ll get your door fixed. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.” 

Cora stood up, pushing her hair out of her face. She looked at Derek, then at Stiles. “Dude, he’s been trying to work up the courage to talk to you forever.”

“Cora,” Derek grunted. “Stop.”

“No, seriously, this is so stupid. You were freaking out about the stupid Christmas tree thing—you know he’s afraid of police officers?” she asked, looking at Stiles again. “He’s never broken a law in his life and he still acts like he’s about to be arrested every time he sees an officer.”

A big grin lit up Laura’s face. “It probably causes some conflicting issues in his brain when he sees you in your deputy uniform and gets all—”

Derek elbowed her in the ribs, his face turning a brilliant red. He kept his eyes down, like he couldn’t make himself look at Stiles. 

Because Stiles was a complete moron who kept making a fool of himself. “Right. I’ll just…let you get back to your-”

“We were just leaving,” Laura announced. When Derek looked at her with some confusion, she grabbed his arm. “We have to go get Cora’s car from the shop. And do some errands. Remember?”

“Yes. My car.” Cora patted Derek’s other arm. “I miss the purple people eater, and since you were driving it when the tire blew, you can pay the bill.” She kissed his cheek. 

Stiles held up a hand. “Your car is purple?”

“Yeah. A couple weeks ago I locked my keys in it when I came to visit Derek. He got the door open and drove me home, with a really long lecture about carrying spare car keys.” She rolled her eyes and bumped her shoulder against Derek’s. “Why do you ask?”

Stiles pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Nothing. I should—I’m sorry about this. I’ll get it fixed. I’ll leave you alone.” 

Laura shook her head. “It’s fine. Cora, Derek, I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”

Derek seemed to brace himself. “No. We’ll go together.” He still wouldn’t look at Stiles. 

Stiles backed into the hall, feeling incredibly foolish. They’d already gotten lucky that Derek hadn’t pressed charges for Allison flattening him. Now Stiles had come and damaged his property because he’d had the audacity to play paintball with his sisters. 

“Go on, I’m right behind you. I’m just going to give Deputy Stilinski the number of a carpenter, paranoid.” 

Derek shot her a deeply suspicious look before letting Cora tow him out of the apartment. He mumbled something at Stiles as they passed, but he couldn’t hear over the buzzing in his ears. 

Laura waved a hand in his face to get his attention. “Okay, I’ve only got a few minutes. Derek has been trying to ask you out for _months_ , but he gets tongue tied when you’re in uniform. He’s also really shy, and you keep catching him at bad moments. He ate an entire tub of ice cream after the handcuffing incident.” Her eyes sparkled. 

Stiles shook his head. “You’re wrong. He probably hates me. I almost arrested him for kidnapping. Or car theft.” 

“Car th—oh.” She laughed. “Oh, man, this keeps getting better. But seriously: if you like him, do something about it. If not, well, uh, fix his door and let him down easy. He’s already feeling down because of the impression he’s made.” She patted his cheek and left in a rush. 

Stiles stared at the broken door, then went back to his apartment. He had to do some shopping. 

 

**+1**

Stiles swore as the busted door tipped onto his foot. The hinges had just about rusted in place, so removing it had proved harder than Stiles had thought. He’d spoken to the maintenance crew employed by the apartments, who’d directed him to a good source for a replacement door and paint. He’d even paid extra for same day delivery. 

He muttered under his breath and set the pieces in the hallway, propped up against the wall so it was out of the way. Movies and TV never seemed to show this part of kicking in doors. Of course, door repair wasn’t exactly action packed. …And usually there was a good reason the hero kicked in the door. 

Stiles thumped the handle of his drill against his forehead a couple times before getting back to work. 

The new door was on and the doorframe was in one piece again when Stiles heard footsteps ascending the stairs. 

He scrambled to his feet, his face flushing all over again. This was so dumb. Laura was wrong and now Derek was going to get a restraining order or something, and oh, god, John would be handling the order and he would _never let Stiles live it down._

He cringed and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and took a step back to survey his work. The door looked fine. It was hanging on straight, and once he finished installing the door knob, it would close right. 

Derek stopped dead at the sight of him. His shirt had a myriad of paint colors on it now, and there was some purple in his hair. 

Stiles swallowed his nerves and offered a wave. “Hey. Um. I was, um.” He stopped when Derek looked at the broken door, then back at him. “Fixing your door,” he finished lamely. 

Derek leaned to the right a little, peering over Stiles’s shoulder and sniffing audibly. 

Stiles winced. “And that, that’s…it’s…” He sighed explosively. “It’s exactly what it looks like,” he admitted.

The table was Derek’s, but Stiles had set it with dishes from his own apartment. He’d cooked a lasagna, which was sitting covered in the center of the table. There was also a bottle of wine in an improvised ice bucket. He was _so_ lame. 

“A…date?” Derek asked slowly. His expression was blank, except for his eyebrows, which were drawn down.

“Um. Yeah. I am…fixing your door and hitting on you. At the same time.” He rubbed his thumb over his jaw, embarrassed. “So if that’s completely out of line, you can just say so.” 

Derek kept staring. 

Stiles cringed, mortified, and nodded. “Right. You can, um, you can keep…that.” He flapped a hand at the food behind him. “And I’ll pay someone to come finish your door. It’s—it’s mostly done, so—I can leave. Sorry for-”

“I didn’t know you were going to fix the door _yourself_.”

Stiles blinked, then rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “Well, yeah. I spent a couple summers doing construction for cash, so I remembered how to do this. It’s—it was supposed to be a nice gesture. Um.” His face was probably hot enough to fry an egg. 

“How much more do you have to do?”

“Um, just the handle. See?” He lifted it, trying not to look like an awkward kid shuffling his feet. 

“Can you take a break?” Derek smiled shyly at him. “We could eat.” He tugged at the bottom of his paint-spattered shirt. “Or I could change first, and then we could eat?”

Stiles’s smile could’ve split his cheeks. “Yeah! Yes, that would be perfect.” He finished installing the doorknob while Derek changed his shirt. “All done,” he said once he returned. “Ah, I can have someone come paint it,” he added, scuffing his shoe. “I’m not great at that part. There’s paint everywhere, people are crying, it’s not a good time for anyone.”

“I’ll do it.” Derek peeled the foil back from the lasagna dish. “Did you make this?” he asked, looking awestruck. 

“Uh, yeah. It’s not too complicated. Oh, but don’t worry, I used my own kitchen. I figured setting the table was making myself at home enough as it was.” 

“I could barely make cranberry sauce for our Christmas dinner,” Derek said morosely as he sniffed at the dish. “The first batch overheated and exploded on me. Cora almost choked to death on a roll laughing at me.” He sighed and pulled a plate closer, cutting into the lasagna. “Thank you.” 

Stiles smiled, relieved. “You’re welcome. And, you know, sorry about your door.” 

“Come sit.” Derek gestured at the chairs. “I’m sorry for how—um, weird everything has been.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles crossed to the table carefully. He had stubbornly not looked around the whole time he’d been working, not letting his curiosity get the better of him. It was bad enough, he’d reasoned, that he’d kicked the guy’s door in. He hadn’t wanted to make it worse by snooping. Now he looked around and saw a neat, brightly furnished home, with plenty of pictures clustered on every blank wall. 

“Laura…has sort of been teasing me…about my crush on you,” he mumbled. “So I was kind of touchy about it—and jumpy around you and it’s all a mess,” he said in a rush.

“Ah.” Stiles picked up the wine and poured two glasses. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was paying such close attention to you for the same reason.” He cringed a little. “I may have jumped to a few conclusions because of it.”

Derek lifted his brows. “Like what?”

“Like you were a serial killer,” he blurted. “But a cute one?” He held out a glass as a peace offering. “I’m sorry. I should’ve just asked about the blood—the sauce! I mean the cranberry sauce. It looked like blood. And the Christmas tree…”

“That was Laura’s fault,” Derek said darkly as he accepted the cup. “I _told_ her that that wasn’t funny, I told her my neighbor was a deputy and that _he_ wouldn’t find it funny and I was really—I almost died when you were out there.” He took a big drink from the glass. “And, well, and she was right about…you guys…making me nervous.” He lifted his shoulders almost to his ears. “I don’t know why.”

Stiles sighed. “And to make matters worse, we tackle and handcuff you.” He covered his face with his hand. “I’m really sorry about that.” 

“I’ll forgive you—if you sit and have dinner with me.” He tried to smile playfully, but it was edged with nerves. 

“Yes—sure. Um, to clarify, I do, you know, want to date you.”

“So it’s not just apology pasta?”

Stiles smiled. “No, it’s not just apology pasta.” 

“Perfect.”

And it sort of was.


End file.
